


Roses

by etamine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Size Difference, escorting, minor character death i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etamine/pseuds/etamine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis works in a florist, and he can’t help but notice the curly haired boy who comes in every friday for roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses

He’d been coming in for a few months now, the boy with the curly hair and green eyes. He’d always ask for the same thing, every single Friday morning, pink and white roses and decorated with a dark pink ribbon. 

It quite romantic really, thinks Louis as he gathers up the flowers before the shop has even opened, because he knows that curly haired boy will come without fail. A few months back, December he remembers, he’d even dragged himself in despite the fact his milky skin had a slight green tinge to it and he’d looked like he was about to leave his half-digested breakfast in the freesias. A horrified Louis had told him that they did phone orders – but Curly had said the shop was on his way to something he can’t miss, not ever  
It’s a good job that Louis has such a brilliant sense of humour, he thinks, as he hears the bell ring signalling the opening of the door exactly as he’s in the middle of a passionate rendition of ‘Bye Bye Bye’ by N*Sync (because maybe Glee spurred on his inner 13 year old with that episode last night). “You’re lively,” laughs Curly, green eyes twinkling a bit as Louis stares, mouth agape, because he really hadn’t been expecting to be caught mid Timberlake solo, thank you very much. As much as he loves Curly’s visits (long, long torso and sinfully tight jeans make a welcome departure from the old ladies looking to refill the church vases or asshole boyfriends who have majorly fucked up and think 12 red roses will magically fix it. Louis doesn’t tell them it won’t as he pockets their £30 and ties an ostentatious ribbon around that bouquet.)

“Lemme guess, 24, 12 white 12 pink?” says Louis, acting like he hasn’t just been caught fangirling in a way that even Lottie would be ashamed of, smile perking up a bit as Curly nods. He pulls out the pre-gathered flowers, expertly arranging them in the way the boy likes, the way that the boy showed him a picture of all those months ago with a slightly timid, “Can you make them look like this please?” Louis had just laughed good naturedly and nodded.

“Card machine has broken by the way, one of the Saturday girls broke it at the weekend and I haven’t had chance to get it fixed yet, I don’t mind holding these while you run and get cash from the ATM down the road though?” says Louis apologetically, because he knows there’s no risk really, Curly will come back for his flowers, always does. At least he thought there was no risk, but Curly’s shifting a bit awkwardly, pouty pink lower lip sucked between his teeth. “I don’t have time Lou, am I alright to give you a cheque? Outdated as that is.”

Louis nods, trying to contain his excitement because the day has finally come. He’s finally going to learn Curly’s name rather than trying to peer at the tiny writing on his credit card before it gets pushed in the card payment machine and failing every single time to see anything but a single letter. He knows his last name ends with an S though, that’s a start right? He likes to pretend Lottie hadn’t laughed at him when he’d been so excited at finally making one of those teeny tiny letters out (and he also likes to pretend that she didn’t nag him to wear his glasses a bit more). 

He returns his eyes to the roses, making sure they’re absolutely perfect. He always wonders who exactly these weekly bouquets are for – he’d thought maybe a spouse or something at first, but Curly never wears a ring, or maybe a girlfriend until Curly had walked past his shop holding hands with a tall, quiffed man who in Louis’ opinion looked way, way too old for Curly and not the kind of guy to want pink and white roses and who definitely should not be slapping Curly’s arse like that in public, not while there were kids around. Curly’s face had seemed to agree with him on that one.

So Curly and his roses were still a mystery, really. Louis had never asked, because he didn’t even have the courage to ask his bloody name, as sad as that was for a 21 year old who co-ran his own business. He tries not to show his anticipation as Curly scrawls down the amount and signs it off, quickly handing it over and giving Louis a smile as he disappears off through the door to a call of “See you next week!”

Eleanor walks out of the back room with a laugh, she’s clearly been watching on the CCTV cameras and Louis suddenly realises that he’s staring into space like an absolute idiot, cheque shaking in his unstable hands. “So go on then, what’s his name?” she asks, London accent as perfectly manicured as she always seemed to be. That’s why she’s the one who works the phones, not him and his brash Doncaster twang. People always seem to be nicer with southern accents, much willing to pay more too. Louis likes working with customers far more anyway if he’s honest.

He’s quite lucky to have Ellie, he thinks. She, him and Stan got put in a flat together as freshers in university, and they’ve been living together ever since. It’s a bit difficult sometimes, with Stan’s on and off girlfriend and Ellie’s other job (that he most definitely won’t ever speak about, he’s absolutely promised her) and Louis’ messily piled accounts ordered forms that Ellie’s given him to deal with with while she does accounts and important businessy things like that because she’s good with numbers, always has been (Louis half thinks she should have studied maths, not politics, but he guesses the latter serves her better in her other job). He wonders how the hell she’s so organised with it every time he sees his pile of things to do between cat videos on youtube.

They make it work though, her, him and Stan and there aren’t often arguments (unless El does her annoying habit of leaving half a pan full of food out on the hob or Stan does a shit that could be considered a biohazard and doesn’t open the window or Louis throws a party then tries to skip off to work before he’s cleaned up after himself). It’s peaceful, their cozy (if a little rough around the edges) flat.

So he lets his eyes flick down to the cheque in his hand, looking at the block printed name along the bottom of the check.

“Harry Styles,” he says embarrassingly breathlessly.

“Styles? Sounds a bit like a porn star, not that I’d mind watching him,” she says with a wiggle of her carefully plucked eyebrows, and Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Well you’re not watching him, because he’s all mine Ellie-pop,” he said, messing up her hair because he knows she won’t mind, she hadn’t had that weird curler thing that looks like a bit like an alien dildo in his opinion in her hand before they’d set off for the shop this morning, instead she’d just piled her hair up lazily (well he assumes lazily, he’s never been good at hair stuff, it’s messily done anyway)in a bun on the very top of her head.

She huffs, putting it back how it was before and Louis feels guilty when he sees that a lot more effort went into that messy look than he’d previously thought, but he knows she doesn’t mind. It’s just banter after all, she’s used to him and Stan messing her appearance up a bit the same way they’re used to her coming back at some ungodly hour of night and the always forgetting which floorboards are the creaky ones and waking them both up.

“All yours? It’s took you god…it must be about 5 months to even find his name? Louis Tomlinarse from uni would be ashamed of you, especially since you already know he’s gay after seeing him with that radio guy.”

“Radio guy?” asks Louis, quirking an eyebrow, because he has no bloody idea who she’s on about, he’s only ever seen him with that old guy with the quiff.

“Yeah, I dunno his name, he does the radio at nights though. The local one,” she shrugs, and suddenly it clicks. Nick Grimshaw definitely had a face for radio now he realised that was him. Curl- no, he was Harry now should have something a bit more Louis Tomlinson shaped to get cozy with underneath the sheets (although not the ones he’s got on his bed right now which have a kind of unattractive stain on where he dropped pizza on them and he hasn’t been arsed to change them yet).

“Oh,” says Louis simply.

“I know where the DJ guys goes at nights though, if you want to come scope out and see if you can find your Harry boy?” she offers, and Louis nods delightedly, because not only can he make sure Ellie’s kind of safe at her other job tonight, he can get drunk and do very sexy drunk dancing (alright maybe it’s a bit more of an arse wiggle then an additional arse wiggle to stop himself falling over, it fits well to Beyonce though he has been told hundreds of times) but he can possibly do some very sexy drunk dancing with a very sexy drunk Harry if he’s there.

The rest of the shift goes bone achingly slow, and Louis is losing the will to live when he’s prevented from closing the shop by some ass who can’t make up his mind on whether he should go for pyrethrium or roses for his girlfriend even though Louis has told him quite a few times by now he’ll get dumped if he takes her pyrethrium. He almost jumps for joy when the guy sighs and hands over the money for roses.

He practically skips out to Eleanor’s car (she drives because would you trust him on the roads of Manchester? The woman who conducted his test wouldn’t either) and plonks himself in the seat, fiddling with his fringe in the wing mirror.

“What are you doing? You look a right twat,” laughs Eleanor and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Getting ready, of course.”

“You’re not going like that!” she exclaims, eyebrows knitting together in a frown. “You’ve been in a flower shop all day, you smell gay.”

“Yeah, well in case you don’t remember a few nights ago when you were banging on the wall to get me to turn down Jake Bass’ latest masterpiece, I am gay,” he says with a smirk as he finally gets his fringe into the right position.

“Yeah, but you smell like grandpa gay if grandma fag hag tells him to use flower oil to keep his pillows smelling old people nice.”

He has to let out a laugh at that from how bloody ridiculous it sounds, but he concedes and agrees to take a shower.


End file.
